Chili Blood
by heavymetalreflective
Summary: Black, dark anger simmering under the surface, a potential to be something he needs, has never seen before, a spirit so stubborn he can't decide whether to break it or harness it. An assumption that she'd ever let him, ever bow to anyone's authority, an understanding that only one is making it out alive. BanexOC
1. Chapter 1

I awake suddenly, no sleepy haze to muddle through. Just dark and then light. Or, slightly less dark. The dim light bulb hanging low over my head flickers almost on a beat: one, two, three, dark, one, two, three, light. I lay there, counting it out, before the feeling of the scratchy, wet with sweat blanket beneath me forces me to sit up. Gross. The walls are a dark ugly stone, the door a thick metal. The room is so small I can kick it from my position on the bed, and I do, feel the force of it reverberate up my leg. My left cheek is slightly damp, and there's a sharp ache behind that ear. I touch it gently and then pop my finger into my mouth. Copper. My own blood probably, maybe someone else's. My head is pounding. I take stock- head feels terrible, arms are sore, ribs sore, legs are okay, feet okay. Par for the course.

Checking my pockets and bra yields two lighters, a metal pointed nail file, and two joints (bent). I light one and suck, the pressure lifting almost immediately. The ceiling is low, too low for someone my height to feel comfortable. I count the beats again. I wanted this. It's the only option. I did not, however, want to be knocked unconscious while surrendering. That was extremely uncalled for, and frankly, just plain rude.

I'm halfway through the second joint and in the middle of a coughing fit when the door swings open, a looming figure framed by swirling smoke.

 _Damn_ , I swear mentally, I never knew he was this big. Then another thought: how many times have I thought that. I snicker, probably out of nervousness.

He pauses in the doorway, then ducks inside. I can just see the muscles moving under the shearling coat, metal apparatus covering his face. If I had any sense at all I would be scared, but the weed is making me sleepy and slightly giddy. He motions for me to scoot to the end of the bed. When I hesitate, he speaks.

"I'm not going to hurt you." There's an unspoken " _yet_ " at the end of that sentence. I won't hurt you, but you better do as I say. I reluctantly inch closer to him. He carefully tilts my head to look at what has been bleeding this whole time. It stings like hell when he even slightly touches it. I keep my eyes on his, not daring to show any discomfort, which becomes harder when I feel the sharp prick of the needle.

Okay, this is okay. Just breathe. I'm not even here right now, eyes watering. There can't be that many stitches to do. This isn't the first wound I've had stitched up, and at least this isn't fishing line like some...most of the others. Focus on something far away. Nothing is real, not even this pain, and I'm not here right now. I'm somewhere far away, and I'm definitely not hyper aware of his proximity to me, how easy it would be to just snap my neck...the snip of the scissors brings me out of my spiral. Am I supposed to say thank you?

"So." I don't answer, keep my gaze straight on the doorway. Maybe I could bolt and admit that this was a dumbass plan from the start.

"This is who has been wreaking havoc on all my men." His voice is harsh, metal, calculated. I can tell he finds this all so amusing. He folds his arms and looks me over again. I nod and grin, all I can manage in this state.

"I apologize for the actions of my men. They went against my orders and will be dealt with accordingly."

I'm not sure how to respond to that either. I light up the joint again, hands shaking. He pinches the ember out of existence instantly. Annoying. We stare at each other. I'm about to finally speak to break the silence of us sizing each other up, yet again, when he beats me to it.

"Follow me." He turns and leaves. I wait for a second. What is he playing at? I cautiously stand and immediately fall back onto the bed, head spinning. Through the fuzzy black at the edges of my vision I see Bane return and start to shut the door. I launch myself off the bed as fast as I can manage, surprising both of us by managing to slip through the crack in time. I'm panting from the effort, bent over with my hands on my knees as the dry, sour spit threatens to bring up whatever I ate last. The hallway is small, made smaller by the both of us. I slump against the wall more to avoid falling into him, his hand still on the handle.

"Are you ready?" He cocks one eyebrow so slightly I would miss it if I wasn't using his face as the focal point to distract from vomit. Bastard. He's enjoying this. Before I can answer, he is already well on his way down the hall, leaving me to jog to catch up. Dick. How many more bad names could I call him in my head before I accidentally say it out loud?

The hallway is a maze, overhead fluorescent lights becoming more frequent as we get closer to...somewhere. I've never been down here before, just heard the whispers in the street. An army of men coming out of the sewers, and none the wiser. I silently hope that I won't be kept underground for much longer. I knew people who had attempted this. Key word: knew. The farther we go, the louder it becomes, muffled sounds of metal on metal and harsh voices.

He stops outside of a large anteroom, partially in shadows. In the center are three men, kneeling, faces covered by black bags. Three men also stand behind them. I want to laugh at the dramatics of it all, the big reveal and the flourish with which they pull off the bags, but the brutality inflected on their faces stops me. I know these must be the men who attacked me, even though their faces are unrecognizable. Knocked me unconscious while I was surrendering. I wonder how serious this offense is to Bane's code.

He steps into the center of the room. He pulls the gun from his coat and aims. I feel the temperature drop and the air feels thick, heavy, a dull ringing in my ear. I swear lightly under my breath. Shit.

"Which one hit you first?" I shake my head. I have no clue. I don't want to be here for this.

"Doesn't matter." He aims at the first one, farthest from me, shoots. Turns back to me to make sure I'm watching. I am. I know he's toying with me, wants to see me break. I lift my chin, stare directly into his eyes. Try to ignore the shivering after the second shot.

I lose whatever is in my stomach after the third shot. Bane lets me vomit until my throat is raw, before taking one of the bags and placing it over my head, making sure to be gentle with the wound. The inside still smells of blood and sweat. I know this is a test too. He puts my hand on his shoulder and begins to walk.

"I'm leaving your hands free for balance. Don't try to run. You won't make it far on your own."

I'm still reeling, trying to keep it together. My breath is trapped, forcing me to inhale hotter and hotter air filled with the other man's misery, and who knows what else. I'm chanting in my head: don't pass out, don't pass out, don't pass out, don't pass out. Air whooshes on both sides of me and I tighten my grip. I hate heights.

I lose track of time as we wind through what are probably tunnels, taking so many turns that at times I feel like we're going in circles just for to torture me. My legs are jelly, betraying me as I stumble more and more the further we go. I have no extra energy to think of those men or their fate. I'm sure I'll have trauma ridden nightmares about it later.

He finally stops, then turns around and guides both of my hands upwards to touch cold metal. The ladder starts just above my head, and I start climbing before he even says anything, hungry for sun. I barely get past three rungs when I hit my head squarely on a ceiling. I wince in pain, aware of the deep rumble that is his chuckle.

The sound infuriates me. He climbs behind me to unlock and push open the manhole cover. I'm slightly smaller, and quicker than him as I push off of his forearms and scramble out before he can catch me. I trip on the edge and land in the snow, rip the bag off and roll onto my back, the wind knocked out of me. The air is so cold it hurts my lungs, the sky a brighter blue than I ever remembered. My elation at being in the sun is short lived. Bane is half a second behind me, but he just stands over me. Watching.

I squint and shield my eyes.

"Do you mind? You're blocking my tan."

It's clear he feels no threat from me. He wordlessly pulls me to my feet and leads me half a block before stopping to tie a blindfold around my eyes. The air slowly gets more acrid as we get closer to our destination. Fire. Or fires? Sometimes the whole city smelled like it was burning. I doubted even that would stop Bane.

There's a rush of warm air as we step inside, our heels echoing on a hard floor. He leads me up stairs, slowly. By the third floor I am panting. I can't remember when I last ate, woken up the past three days gnawing on empty air.

Six flights of stairs and my knees are trembling. All I can hear is my wheezing and his mask. That fucking mask. I saw it in my nightmares, sometimes. It angered me, but now, standing so close, all I feel is calm. A stillness now that I have a purpose of destroying it and him. Oh yes. An inner zen. Beautiful. Channel my inner calm through this whole process. Ripping it off with my bare hands or setting him on fire or shooting it with a crossbow maybe. Breathe. Feel this moment consciously or something. No passing out. He turns and gives a strange stare. Did I say any of that aloud?

We've reached the end of a dark hallway. The apartment he unlocks is spacious, bare. A mattress in the middle of the living room, blood splatters on the carpet in the entryway. How quaint. He points to the mattress and I collapse onto it.

"Rest. Tomorrow you **will** speak to me." I wave my hand dismissively and sink into sleep. Tomorrow's problem.

 ***hi wow sorry I keep editing it I think I actually like it now here ya go I'll update regularly now thanks for reading anyways***


	2. Chapter 2

It's morning. I think. I tear through the cupboards. The kitchen is dark wood and white marble, the cabinet doors heavy for my shaking hands. I take a deep breath and steady myself. Hunger, nothing new. Everything has to be slow. No passing out here. The pantry is padlocked, the brushed steel mocking me. The fridge is not, fortunately, and I find two slices of cheese and a half empty bottle of wine. Better than nothing, although not by much. I chug some of the wine and feel the burn settling in my chest. The cheese is barely edible.

I wander the hallway, sipping, dizzy. There's five doors. One closet, one bathroom, three locked bedrooms. The bathroom is immaculate and makes me realize just how dirty I am. I fumble with the faucet of the marble bath, stick my mouth under until I've had my fill, and dump a whole bottle of something in there. There's dozens more under the sink, nothing more useful than shampoo. I empty it all into the water. I need to be clean. I'm tipsy. My coat is blue, used to be blue, some fur stolen long ago. The bulletproof vest with stains around the neck is next. My jeans are disgusting, caked with dirt and blood. They rip and I tear them off, keep ripping until they're shreds. Sober, thoughtful me from days past tucked five pills into the top folds of my socks, and I thank her endlessly as I line them up on my tongue and chew with relish.

I have to drain and refill the water to actually clean myself. I'm a mess of ugly yellow and dark purple bruises, scratches, scrapes and burns. The soap burns as I scrub. Another swig. Now I'm really feeling nice, not on the verge of tears. There's no time. I had a shitty plan when I came here and it's already falling apart. The room is spinning. I close my eyes and sink. First... get better. Maybe it's a combination of the light concussion and bloodshed I was forced to witness. Plus hunger.. and thirst. Overexertion. This is the first time I've had to bathe and rest somewhat safely in weeks. Bottle. Sip. I could use this as a weapon... the thought of breaking it open on Bane's skull is too good.

This is how he finds me, dazed and smiling at nothing in the corner. He's not stupid. He knows. He's not stupid. He's regarding me like a novelty. The time is noon. Is it noon? My head hurts, and it's light, and it's too light, and I could use more cheese. This is annoying. I needed to think. I'm angry at myself. He throws me a change of clothes and a towel because I never found one, tells me something like, meet me at the table. It's hard to concentrate.

I meet him in the dining room. He opens every single window, each freezing burst of air more unbearable as the room temperature drops. I want to mock him but my teeth are chattering and he can't see that. I get it. He needs to sober me a little. TOO BAD, I should scream, and I'm clinging to the buzzed feeling just for spite. I hate him.

"Will you kill yourself?"

I give him a blank stare.

"Would you jump?"

"Excuse me?" And he's lifting me, or trying. I know how huge he is, how he's used to throwing people around, and I know that me being close to his weight and taller than him is not something he knew or prepared for before yesterday. I relax every muscle and enjoy the struggle he has, dragging my dead weight to the window, forcing my head out of the window. I scream into the wind. He's yeling something at me and I refuse to listen. He keeps trying to yell and I'm still not listening and I'm going to scream my head off until he realizes I'm not listening. I lean forward even more, let myself hang over the edge, away from his hand on my head. He has nothing to grab. I can feel the ledge pressing against my stomach, slidng down towards his arm around my lets go suddenly,and I begin to slip faster. But I only begin, because I instinctively twist and grab the wall with one hand, stumbling into the table. Damn.

I think he's smiling. Is he smiling? Laughing even. I slump into a chair.

"So you do want to live?"

I shrug. He gets close. I want to spit in his face. Against better judgement, I do. He lifts me from the chair by my throat and slams me onto the table. Now he's , gut laughs.

"That's what I was looking for. Some sign of a fight."

I stare straight into his eyes. He's tightening his grip. I make a point to defiantly suck in a gulp of air and hold it. You don't get the jump on me. I'll kill myself first. Try me. He releases me and I keep holding it.

"Are all the stubborn gestures worth it?"

I let all the air out slowly and grin.

"Yes."

"Get up."

He moves me to a chair and I swat his hand away. This amuses him too.

"Everything's so fucking funny to you. Chuckles the fucking clown."

"I like you better when you talk."

"First time I've heard that." Don't try to soften me up.

He pulls up a chair.

"For every truthful answer you give me, I'll spare one life."

"What does it matter? If the bomb still goes off anyway? That's a shitty trade. You get your information and someone gets to live only a little bit longer under-"

"I'll let them out of the city."

"Deal."

"You don't choose the people. I will, at random."

"That's fine with me." He really thinks I would care.

"What is your name?"

"Ka-"

He cuts me off. "Not the fake name that you use. Your real name."

"Bhujwala." A name is a name is a name. There's no power in giving it. Right? The last of the high leaves me and I'm suddenly very, very bone deep tired.

"Bhujwala..?"

"Prasad."

He pulls out a smart phone and looks it up on some unrecognizable program. That's one life saved. Easy. Should have gone this route a long time ago.

"How many of your people are there?"

"Around a thousand." Multiplied by four.

"And you're the leader?" There's a slight sneer in his voice that drives me crazy.

"There's no set single person who leads. But if that's out of your scope of knowledge, let me know."

He looks like he could slap me. He's not above it. But he refrains.

"We'll continue this." And he's gone again.

The second the door closes I can breathe again. Maybe let's not piss him off anymore. How many questions was that? How many could I answer to even make a difference in the amount of people saved, versus taking the direct action to destroy Bane and his operation?

First. Find the nail file. That's easy enough. It's tucked away in the pile of clothes on the floor. Second, hide it somewhere. I can't think straight enough to know what to do right now, but everything has been taken from me and I'm not losing this one thing too. There's a small lip inside the bottom cupboards and I place the file flush against the one with closest to the living room.

There's a rush in my ears and a pop as I stand up, steady myself.

I notice two things right away. First, there's a camera somewhere in the kitchen. Filter out the noise of the fridge and there's a high pitch whine and whirring noise that can't belong to anything else, so faint I wouldn't notice if the apartment wasn't deathly silent. Second, the padlock on the pantry is gone. The inside is saltines, cranberry juice in cans, fruit cocktail cups,instant noodles. One bowl, one cup, one fork. A fucking feast. I don't want him to know I know about the surveillance, but I want to laugh in his face and scream thanks, you absolute cunt. I have to measure the water carefully. Put it in the microwave, pour it in the cup, spill it on myself, feel the burn on my skin and it feels good. I don't want him to see me lose it. Chew slowly and ponder the microwave and if you really can blow someone's head up in it.


	3. Chapter 3

Two days ago he came home bleeding profusely from the forehead, shook his head like a dog splattering the blood on the floor, me, the walls, closed the bedroom door softly and didn't emerge for six hours. Unusual. It's remarkable how well I fell into a routine, how fast his coming and goings matter when isolate from every other human. Today, he is late. He tries not to have a routine and I can tell, but he is always home within the same hour, sometime before midnight but after eleven. I hope he's dead. If he's dead someone already would have been here to kill me. I hope he's dead and it was especially painful and brutal. Blood poisoning hopefully.

It's almost one am when he gets back. I'm in the bathroom, the one place without cameras, doing angry push ups for the last hour on and off. He can starve me all he wants. I need to be strong. Break those doors, his face, when the time comes.

He points to the chairs facing each other, left from last night. There's a spray of ugly dried blood on his coat. It's all I can focus on when he asks me the questions. I answer automatically. Yes we have a grenade launcher. No we don't make our own explosives (we do). We don't (we do) because of lack of supplies. No we don't have many college educated people or members of the military helping us. That's true. Always too pushy, too certain they know the right way, oblivious to the fact that the rules they loved are gone and you can't follow a plan to beat a man who rose out of chaos. Do we have a well stocked artillery? Am I lying? No, I'm being honest that we have a bare bones operation. Partly true. It doesn't matter how well stocked we are. What we have is what we have, and there's no more guns or bullets to steal without a massive risk.

Usually he leaves me alone. This time is different.

"Stand up."

"That's not a question." He pulls me to my feet.

"Hit me. Let's see what you can do." He steps back, leaves himself wide open for me.

"No."

"You don't have a choice. Hit me. Make it count."

I size him up. Thick, almost corded, muscle from head to toe. Loose, but not too loose, practical clothing. Well worn combat boots. A gun in that holster, a knife in both boots, an insane breathing apparatus. Shorter than me, by only an inch. Heavier than me, but not by much.

I take a wide shot then follow it with an close uppercut to his gut, quickly aim a powerful kick intended to take out his knee. He's caught off guard and takes a step back, but only one. I know I haven't hurt him. But I did intrigue him. I can see him analyzing me as he circles me,raising every hair on my body with his stare.

"You have potential." That line disgusts me so much I want to hit him again. "I would have recruited you."

He's goading you. Breathe.

"Instead you just kidnapped me."

"You surrendered." And you never thought to ask why.

He circles closer. "I could teach you."

I snort. "Is that it? You'd teach me? What, exactly, could you teach me that I haven't already been forced to learn?"

Silence.

"Who is Tamara?"

"No one. Anymore."

"Dead?"

"No. Are these questions the ones that save lives?"

"A child? A sister? A mother? A friend, a lover? Someone important enough to get her name tattooed on you."

"I was young, and stupid, and she doesn't mean anything to me anymore. But as always you're extremely transparent. Wondering if you can get under my skin, if you can worm your way in and make me itch. Make me reconsider." _You don't get to know me or my past, you piece of shit._ We're face to face now. I want to keep my face neutral, not let him see how angry I'm getting. Not hot, stubborn anger that has been my experience here. The dark, thick anger boiling under the surface, the kind that when it arises it first provides an unmatched focus. Purpose. The kind you can see someone trying to control, if you stared into their eyes long enough. The lights are dimmed where we are, but we're so close I know that he can feel it.

"Hit me." He's behind me. I want to give in, see how bad I can hurt him. Everything is a game to him. If I hit him, he wins. If I don't, he'll punish me somehow. I slide one foot back. "Enough with the begrudging compliance. You have no choice, better not to waste my time resisting the inevitable. Hit m-"

I twist on my back foot and slide the other, staying grounded the whole time, smash one fist through in a straight punch to the center of his mask. It's my non dominant hand, as I anticipated the throbbing pain of knuckles hitting metal. There's barely a dent, and I follow swiftly with another uppercut, right to his jaw, and now the rage is free. I need to keep it under control. It feels so good. I drop a kick straight to his chest, and when he inches back, strike the mask again, spin around behind him to maybe hold one arm straight and run him face first into the wall, or engage in a chokehold. Instead I stay clear of him, give one more well placed kick to the body of the spider like machine.

The damage is minimal; I'm barefoot. He's so massive he barely budged, but he's breathing heavily. I know he wants to hit back, found flaws with every move, wants to teach me better. Use me for his own gain. His fingers curl into a palm, release immediately. I wasn't supposed to see that. To get under his skin. He's thinking.

"Are we done?"

"Why didn't I break your neck too? Send you to be judged? Hang you from the bridge for the world to see? Flay you in the streets to make an example?"

I can feel something has shifted between us, in this short time frame and interaction within it. He wants me to say it. Why I think I'm here. I close the distance between us, whisper into his ear from behind.

"Ask yourself the same questions."


	4. Chapter 4

Tamara is in my dream. We're together again, normal again. I missed her sweet face. We're in a landscape of burning buildings, running through the streets. I'm pulling her along,then pushing, screaming at her to just move. She won't move. Bane's somewhere in the flames, stalking. I can feel it. I know it's a dream, because she is there. I know it could be reality, because he is there.

I wake up in a cold sweat, remembering his question. _Who is Tamara_? Maybe he already knew. Knew where she was, beyond his reach unless he flexed his fingers and found her through a murky connection. He probably knew everything about me, her. Where she was, what she didn't tell me. I'm struck with panic, leftover from the nightmare, the frightening possibility that Bane has knowledge of me and my loved ones beyond what I've given.

Duh. Of course he would research the enemy. Part of me wonders if everyone I left behind has been caught already, if he would gloat in my face.

If I make him angry, what is he going to do with the information?

I've only been here four days, but every interaction seems monumental. He is the only person I've seen or been able to talk to. He is as clever as he is cunning, secretive, patient. Before, when I heard he was asking for me, sending the dogs after me, I took it as a testament to the damage we were inflicting. Now I know it's a twisted compliment, or a test that I will fail. A failure that will affect everyone else. I don't want to think about what happens if I pass.

I'm pacing silently, the plush carpet absorbing any footstep. I don't know which door Bane is behind. He waits until I am asleep or in another room before retiring to his. I press an ear to each. It's early morning, the lull between late night and dawn, the barest twinge of light. There's one door with yellow illuminating the small strip underneath, shadows occasionally blotting them out. Peeking through the keyhole reveals only one line of sight. He's standing at the window. His shirt is off and his back is scarred worse than anything I've ever seen, almost every single inch knotted, twisted flesh. I hope they hurt. He turns slightly, and I can see he's reading something. I realize his face is bare, and press my whole face against the knob, as if that will garner a better look. I'm frantically hoping he'll turn around fully when there is a loud knock and I'm left scrambling down the hallway.

The knocking repeats, gains urgency.

When he emerges half a second later, dressed and masked, I'm sitting upright under my blanket. He answers the door and steps out, closing it behind him. I hear muffled conversation, then he returns, puts on his jacket, cocks a gun, and locks me in.

I wait. I pace. I eat a meal and do a hundred sit ups in the bathroom and look through his keyhole. At least I know which room is his now, on the left side with access to a balcony. He can take the mask off, and he does. His location is not secret, and apparently he trusts someone enough to deliver a message straight to his door.

It's three hours until he comes back. Unharmed. Almost...jovial.

He throws me a duffle bag. "Clothes."

He's watching me unzip it with some strange anticipation. I don't like the way the mood has changed, everything screams danger, but he says it's just clothes.

And it is. They're familiar. They're mine, not what I was wearing when they found me, but from before. They smell like my apartment. They smell like home. I'm struggling to stay neutral. He's just trying to rile you. No one knows where I used to live. I used a P.O. box for any mail and had it listed on my license. I paid rent in cash and had an unofficial monthly lease agreement with the owner. My heart clenches as I think of the little apartment above the Asian grocery store...I thought it had been blown to bits. I don't want to look at these in front of him, so I feel around some more.

My fingers hit what I was fearing: the thick binding of my journal.

" _Fuck_."

"Now _that_ ," he stands and goes to pour a drink from the dining room bar,"was a novel. Something to toast to. Incredible writing. The detail.. superb."

There's a cold pit in my stomach. I know exactly what's written on every page. Page 56, my abortion and all feelings afterwards. Page 89, Tamara's new address and contact info, somewhere in Indiana. Page 1-400, every feeling and thought I'd had for the past two years. I take a sip, a harsh vodka. He speaks before I can.

"This was one of my favorites," He takes the journal out of my hand and flips to a page,"'March 23. I want to be still.I have not felt still this whole week. I feel on edge. I feel something inky black roiling inside of me. Last night I heard footsteps for hours above me.' But you lived on the top floor didn't you? Must have scared you."

When I don't answer he continues," This is one of the questions."

I nod. My anger has been replaced by the deep seated fear of another unpredictable man capable of great violence.

"'April 15th. Sometimes I feel so violent and torn inside I don't even recognize myself. I want to tear my face into strips and then I'll feel something and maybe it will be a little freedom. Just do it and be done just do it and be done.' That's written for a full page. What a useful find. The insight into your mind is just..."

He trails off, seemingly lost for words on how much he relishes this. He's absently staring out the window.

"I knew you would be the one. I did not realize how similar we are," He turns to me again,"Finish your drink."

There is no humor there. Whatever amusement he had before concerning me is gone. I don't like this change, and I don't know how to navigate whatever this conversation is. I finish the drink.

"I want to show you something."

He comes over and takes my chin in his hand.

"But you're not ready yet. You will be soon."


End file.
